


The Rose of Belhalla

by AuspexOfIlia



Series: Fire Emblem Fairy Tales [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Seisen no Keifu | Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Sleeping Beauty Fusion, F/M, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Sleeping Beauty Elements, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, a whole lot of cameos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24190228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuspexOfIlia/pseuds/AuspexOfIlia
Summary: Cursed to die at the prick of a thorn, Deirdre is sent to live a secluded life in Verdane. There, she grows up happy, even with the constant worries of the Loptyrians finding her. She knows someday she must return to her father in Belhalla, but will she truly be happy?Born to the best friend of the king, Sigurd lives a nice life with his sister and father in the Dukedom of Chalphy. One day, while visiting Verdane in a diplomatic mission, he comes across Deirdre, and the two are smitten at first sight.Unfortunately, the cult seems to have figured out where Deirdre is, and are planning their next move...Sleeping Beauty AU with Sigurd and Deirdre.
Relationships: Diadora | Deirdre/Siglud | Sigurd
Series: Fire Emblem Fairy Tales [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1745881
Comments: 7
Kudos: 10





	1. Seed

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 24th anniversary to FE4! I wasn't gonna do this one until I had C&A and the still unnamed MarIgnatz Swan Lake one done, but I wanted to get this one done by my birthday (June 24th), and my add brain likes to make me switch from project to project on a weird basis. This is probably the fic I'm the most excited about, which is saying a lot, because I'm excited about all of the Fairy Tale Fics. I guess it doesn't help that once I found out what happens to Sigurd and Deirdre, I was determined to make a fic where they got a good ending. Also, the chapter titles will make sense as I update this.
> 
> Rose Meanings from here: https://www.fiftyflowers.com/blog/rose-color-meanings/
> 
> P.S. The way Sigurd and Deirdre meet in Chapter One is similar to Phillip and Aurora in the Disney movie. Sigurd and Prince Phillip share a brain cell, don't they?
> 
> P.P.S. Bridal Banner drops in 6 days and I have saved 550 orbs in hope the duo is these two. I also wouldn't mind Chrom/Sumia or Zeke/Tatiana, but Jugdral only has 5 alts right now, so... fingers crossed!

_White roses often represent purity, innocence and youthfulness. White roses are sometimes referred to as bridal roses because of their association with young love and eternal loyalty. White roses can also symbolize a new beginning and everlasting love._

* * *

Prince Kurth of Belhalla looked over his newborn daughter’s cradle. There she lay, sleeping. The definition of innocence. Her mother would have loved to see her like this, but fate was cruel and took Cigyun away before she could even lay an eye on her daughter.

This wasn’t the time to grieve, however. Partygoers from all walks of life danced in the great hall. Savory scents filled the air, and a crowd huddled around the banquet table. The musicians blared their instruments in an attempt to overpower all the laughter and talking. How his daughter slept through the noise was beyond Kurth.

It wasn’t long before a visitor came up to wish blessings upon the princess. Kurth recognized him at first sight. Tall and well-built, Gray streaks peppering his blue hair, a small child resembling him at his side. It was Lord Byron, head of the house of Chalphy, and a dear old friend since the days of his youth.

“Ah! Kurth! It’s so good to see you!”

“You as well, Byron.” Kurth glanced at the child. “I presume that’s Sigurd?”

“Yes! Isn’t he just the cutest?” Byron gleamed. “He’s a spitting image of me!”

Kurth nodded. He then realized someone was missing from the equation. “Where’s Lady Margrete?”

Byron raised his eyebrows, his mouth forming into a soft o shape. “Well, I was going to keep it a surprise and have her tell you herself, but she came down with morning sickness and stayed behind.”

Kurth blinked. “You mean she’s pregnant?’

“Yes! Sigurd is going to have a younger sibling to play with!” Byron said, rustling his son’s hair. “Isn’t that right?”

Sigurd squeezed his eyebrows shut at his father’s touch. He squirmed out from under his father’s grasp and toddled over to the cradle. Grasping the side with his tiny hands, he peeked in, eyes full of curiosity and wonder.

“Ah, seems he’s curious about his new friend,” Byron said. “Though in the future, it’s possible the two might--”

Before Byron could finish, Sigurd reached one of his hands in and poked the baby’s cheek. The princess still slept, even after being poked in the face. Byron promptly pulled him away. “Oh, no! Don’t do that!”

Kurth laughed. “He’s just a child. He doesn’t know any better. It’s alright.” 

“Well, your daughter sure is a sound sleeper.” Byron said. “What I was going to say was that these two may court each other someday.”

“It’s possible. As long as the two consent to it. I don’t want to force anything on them, lest they end up like Cigyun and Victor.”

Silence. That was a sore spot for the nobles of Grannvale, especially Kurth himself. He coughed. “I’ll make a deal. The two shall meet over the years, and if they fall in love, I give my blessing.”

“Sounds good,” Byron said. “At the very least, I hope they become good friends.”

With one last exchange, Byron took Sigurd to go to the dessert table. It was time for Kurth to make his announcement: the official reveal of the princess’s name. He stood up from his throne and raised his arms. At seeing this, the conductor paused, and the musicians stopped mid-song. All eyes fell to the prince.

“Citizens of Grannvale,” Kurth said, his voice booming across the room. “The time has come for me to reveal the name of your princess.”

The crowd cheered. Kurth wondered yet again if anything in this world truly could wake his daughter up. “It is with great joy that I thank you all for coming to this wondrous occasion. Cigyun would have felt the same.”

A chill went up Kurth’s spine. Something felt wrong about this situation. Nerves, maybe? No, that couldn’t be. He’d made plenty of speeches in his life. “As you know, it is tradition to reveal the name of newborn children at a party. With that, I give you--”

The door to the hall burst open with a violent gust of wind. Every single candle in the room snuffed out, and the sky outside turned a pitch black. A figure cloaked in a purple aura stood in the doorway, the only source of light in the room.

"Ah, was I not invited to this gathering?” It said, a voice of poison and ooze.

“It’s the archbishop of the Loptyrian Cult!” Screamed a partygoer. Before any of the soldiers could intervene, Manfroy raised his staff. The orb glowed a deep mauve before sending a burst of energy through the room. The soldiers and partygoers all found themselves unable to speak or move, Kurth being the one exception.

“Leave at once,” commanded Kurth. “I have no interest in any pacts with you.”

Manfroy crept up the hall, a smirk on his face. “Oh? I’m not here to negotiate. I’m here to see the child, that is all.” 

Kurth felt his stomach churn at the archbishop’s words. His words seemingly rang true, but something sinister lurked underneath. The prince was unarmed, and fighting back could cause grave injury. All he could do was watch for the time being.

Manfroy stepped up onto the dais and peered down into the cradle. “What a precious little thing.” He brushed away the child’s lavender bangs with his bony fingers, revealing the divine mark on her forehead. The child squirmed and mewled at his touch. “Naga’s chosen.”

There it was. His real reason. Kurth shot up from his throne. Without even looking in his direction, Manfroy waved his other hand at the king. Two tendrils of dark magic slithered around Kurth’s wrists, chaining him to the ground. He cursed as he struggled to break free from his bindings. “You devil!”

The archbishop cackled. “Would a devil come to bestow a gift upon such a precious babe?”

Kurth grunted. Every struggle made the restraints on his wrists tighter. “Don’t you dare lay a curse on my daughter!”

“A curse? You are mistaken, my good sir. This is a blessing-- A blessing for all humanity!”

Gasps came from the crowd as a dark substance seeped from the floor, surrounding the archbishop and the cradle. Manfroy’s haunting laughter echoed throughout the hall.

“The babe shall grow to be beautiful and fair,

Rose red lips, lavender hair

All the grace of a white swan,

A voice as fair as birdsong at dawn.

But, a cursed rose will bring deathly sleep

With just one prick, her soul shall be reaped

And by Naga’s blood, drawn by a thorn

The Dark Lord Loptous will be reborn!"

The archbishop vanished in a cloud of smoke. His laugh still rang in the ears of the king alongside his child's cries. The chains around Kurth's wrists dissipated, dropping him to his knees. Had this not been a public gathering, he would have burst out in anger, calling Manfroy names no mother would approve of. Instead, he looked up to his guard. 

“The party is over. Send everyone home.”

* * *

Kurth’s study was small for a man of his status, yet just the right size for his own comfort. Two massive bookshelves sat on the back wall, the contents strewn all over the room. Between the two bookshelves sat an unlit fireplace. An ornate couch with wooden framing sat in front of the fireplace. On each side was a matching chair, as well as a low table in the center. Sunlight poured upon his desk from the grand window on the right wall. 

The prince paced around the room, one hand on his chin and eyes to his feet. He could not let the cult get their way. He could not let the people of his kingdom be ravaged by Loptous. Most importantly, he could not let his precious daughter die a tragic death. There had to be a way to save her from the curse. Anything had to be done to prevent such a future. But what could possibly protect from the darkest magic of all?

A knock at the door awoke Kurth from his trance. “Your majesty, Lord Byron wishes to speak with you.”

Kurth raised his head. “Let him in.”

The door creaked open. In came Byron, as well as a maid holding a tea set. “I figured you would want to talk with me,” Byron said. “It’s not healthy to think about this all alone.”

“Yes, Of course. Come and sit.” Kurth said. He gestured to the sitting area. “You can place the tea on the table there. I apologize for the mess.”

Byron sat down upon the couch, displacing some stray books. The maid sat the tray in front of him and poured the lord a cup. When she offered to pour one for Kurth, he declined. “My stomach is awash with stress. I’ll get some when I feel better.”

Byron raised the teacup to his mouth and took a sip. “It’s chamomile. My wife drinks it to relieve morning sickness.”

To this, Kurth chuckled. “All right. I’ll have a cup, then.” He sat down in the chair to Byron’s left. They sat there sipping their tea, not a single word exchanged. It wasn’t until they heard the door shut behind the maid that Kurth decided to address the elephant in the room.

“I presume the engagement is off.”

“Nonsense. I want to help you protect your daughter.”

Kurth placed his cup down onto the saucer and smiled. “I should have known. You’re always willing to lend a hand.”

Byron smiled back. “Just like the days at the academy.”

“Exactly,” Kurth said. “Remember that time I was ill, and you announced my symptoms in excruciating detail to the entire class because we thought the professor wouldn’t believe us?”

Byron nudged his friend. “Professor Eisner didn’t speak to me for a week.”

“I don’t blame him.” Kurth crossed his legs. “Back on topic. My idea was we hunt down the culprits. There’s just one problem: they hide themselves well. They move at night as well as off the beaten path. No clues as to where their stronghold is have been found in years. It’s a shot in the dark to try and find them.”

“I didn’t even know the cult was still an issue,” said Byron. “There were always a few incidents here and there, but nothing this big.”

Kurth nodded. “I’m surprised they made such a big show out of this. Coming straight to the castle and all. I worry they may return-- Not even our strongest guards can take them down. You saw what happened out there. Petrified. All of them.”

Byron sat there for a moment before looking down into his tea. “In that case, I believe you may have to send the child away.”

Kurth’s face fell. He’d only known his child for one week. Missing out on months, years, maybe even decades of time with her was a blade to the heart-- but if it was what was best for her safety, he would do it.

Byron stroked the stubble on his chin. “Cigyun had a child with Victor of Velthomer, if I am correct. Do you think the house would be willing to take her in?”

“House Velthomer is not fond of me after what happened to Victor and Cigyun,” Kurth replied. “Besides, the cult would know to look there. It’s too obvious.”

“Ah, that is true. Do you know if Cigyun had any other relatives?”

Kurth pondered the thought. Cigyun was a woman of few words. What he did get out of her was that she was initially raised in a secluded part of Verdane. She much enjoyed hearing about the world beyond there and Grannvale. Victor must never have let her travel alongside him, not even back to her home.

“Her mother lives in a place called the Spirit Forest. She pointed it out on the map to me once, but never took me there. Not many people venture to that part of Verdane.”

Byron finished his last sip of tea. “Seems we have our winner, then. I hope Batu is okay with this. The risk of cultists flocking to his kingdom is not a welcome one.”

“It’s our only chance at saving Jugdral. He will understand,” Kurth said, rising out of the chair. “I’ll go ahead and start on the letter.”

“I should go pick up Sigurd, then,” said Byron. “I can imagine he’s driving the nanny crazy. He’s such a fierce little thing.” 

“Poking at my daughter’s face? I’ll have him thrown in the cellar for that,” Kurth joked. “The sentence? A timeout there until he says sorry. No sweets for a week.”

Byron tried to contain his laughter, but failed. He stood up and brushed his legs off. “One last thing, though. What name did you decide upon for your daughter? The Archbishop oh-so-rudely interrupted you before you could make it public.”

“Ah, her name. Cigyun actually chose it, not me.” Kurth looked to the tea set, sweet memories of the conversations they’d had flocking into his mind. “Her name is Deirdre.”


	2. Sprout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First meetings blossom into much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It takes a while to write when you have Attention Deficit Disorder, whoops. On the bright side, the Masquerade duo gives me a good set of outfits for the last few chapters of this.   
> Thank you to everyone who helped me beta this! Not really sure what else to put here, honestly.

_Lavender roses are unique yet stunning roses that can make quite a statement. Their symbolism is often tied to enchantment, wonder, splendor and mystery as well as love at first sight or enchantment at first sight._

* * *

Deep in the lush forest of Verdane, Deirdre waltzed across the forest floor. Her long lavender curls bounced with each step. The sun filtered through the trees, light dancing on the ground as the leaves rustled in the spring breeze.

Today was a day off from shrine duty. Her grandmother sent her out to do some errands. She'd already bought some honey, milk, and sausage down at the market, as well as some fabric to patch up. Now, she was off to get a small treat for the two of them.

The berry patch sat in a small clearing not too far from the cottage where she and her grandmother lived. Around this time of year, the berries grew plump and juicy. Perfect for pies, jams, or just eating on their own. The vibrant red made a great dye for cloth as well.

Humming to herself, she started to pick the berries from the bush. The warm sun shone upon her back. Soon, the humming grew into a full blown song, and then--

“Excuse me, miss.”  
  
Deirdre jolted up. She spun her head towards the voice. Who was it? Could the cultists have found her? Maybe it was one of Verdane’s infamous brigands, though even they respected the sanctity of the Spirit Forest...

In the brush stood a white horse. Sitting atop was a man, his mouth agape and posture erect. Messy blue hair swept like a wave over his forehead. He donned a crisp white tunic, a royal blue cape descending from his shoulders. His wide azure eyes stared back at Deirdre with wonder.

Deirdre gasped and clasped her hand on her heart. Time stopped. She could feel her chest heat up as she stood there, her gaze intertwined with the man’s. It felt like a moment from one of the romance novels she’d read when she was younger. As predictable as those were, they never failed to warm her heart even on the coldest of days. 

A grunt from the horse snapped her out of her reverie. What was she doing? This was forbidden of her. She didn’t even know this man. How long had the two of them been standing there? 

Deirdre scooped up her basket. A few berries dropped to the ground with a plop. "I'm terribly sorry. I'm not supposed to talk to strangers." 

The man led his horse out of the bush. "No, I should be sorry. I frightened you. That was terribly rude of me." He attempted to dismount his horse, but his black leather boot slipped off the stirrup. He fell to the ground with a thud. Dirt smeared his white coat. 

“Oh, dear.” Deirdre placed her basket down and rushed over to the man, extending her arm to him. He obliged and took her palm. His hands were rough and calloused against her soft skin. When she pulled him up, their faces grew close. His breath brushed against her face. Her heart raced in her chest. The tips of her ears turned a bright pink. She backed away and turned her head. From her peripheral vision, it looked as if he’d done the same. Was he just as flustered as she was about this? If so, she didn’t blame him. 

“Thank you, um…” The man scratched his head. “May I ask your name?”

“Deirdre. My name is Deirdre.” 

“That’s a lovely name,” the man said, adjusting his cravat. He then flinched, his face turning beet red. Deirdre giggled and thanked him.

“My name is Sigurd, heir to the Granvellian duchy of Chalphy.” The man bowed. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

Deirdre’s eyes went wide. She recalled the stories grandmother told her about her father. Wasn’t the Duke of Chalphy good friends with him? If the duke’s son was here, did that mean the duke and her father were here too? Or was this just a trick by the cultists to lure her into their clutches?

Sigurd ran his fingers through his hair. “I, uh, I don’t quite have any proof of my heritage on me, so I understand if you think I’m lying--”

“Oh!” Deirdre waved her hands in front of her chest. “No, no, I’ve just never met a noble, that’s all. Not many people come this far into the woods, much less nobility.” 

“Again, I apologize. I was hunting with a friend of mine, and I heard a voice, so I followed it, and now I’m here.”

Drat. He had heard her singing. That meant others might have heard it as well. “Is anyone else with you?”

Sigurd grinned. “I have my horse, if he counts.”

Deirdre smiled and let out a sigh of relief. If this truly was a Loptyrian masquerading as a prince, he would not be this silly. An actor would stick to the “proper noble” stereotype to the point of overdoing it. Plus, as stupid as that joke was, a small part of her liked it. 

A big part of her liked _him_.

“I’m sorry about your coat getting dirty,” Deirdre said. “Do you mind if I clean it? There’s a river nearby.”

“That would be absolutely wonderful.” Sigurd grabbed his horse’s rein. “I think my friend here could use a drink as well.”

* * *

Deirdre led Sigurd down the path to the stream. Various pairs of animals drank from the shallow water. Many pairs of ears stood up at the sound of the couple’s footfall. She knelt down besides the stream. "Alright. I don't have any washing soda on me, so it won't be a perfect clean, but I can try to scrub some of the dirt off."

Sigurd unfastened his cape and laid it on the ground. "That's alright. I think my sister will have less of a fit if she sees that we actually tried to clean it." He fumbled with the buttons on his coat before revealing the thin white undershirt beneath. It cut away just so that his collarbone and the side of his pectorals were visible. Deirdre felt her heart flutter at the sight.

Mentally, she chastised herself. This was inappropriate. She knew better than this. Why couldn't she look away?

Sigurd laid the coat in her hands. Silky, smooth material. Golden buttons and trim. No wonder his sister would get on his case for getting it dirty. The coat must have cost more than a whole week's worth of food. If she wasn’t careful, it could fall apart.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Sigurd asked.

“Um…” Deirdre stared down at the coat. She couldn’t look him in the eyes, not like this. “If there are any pleasant smelling flowers around, we could try to use them to make your coat smell nice.”

“Alright.” He stood up and wandered into the brush.

Deirdre looked down at her reflection. Her hair stood up with static, her clothes and face smeared with little bits of dirt. She dipped her hands in the water, then wove them through her hair to settle down the stray strands. A quick swipe of her thumb removed the dirt from her cheek. 

Sigurd came back carrying a bundle of lavender roses in his arms. “I had to use my sword to cut these. You’d be surprised how thick these things can grow.”

"Do they have thorns on the stems?"

"Some," said Sigurd. "I think I have a few holes in my sleeve now."

"Could you cut the flowers off, please? I only need the petals." She wanted to explain why, but her stomach filled with butterflies from just looking back at Sigurd. What were the odds he’d believe her, anyways?

Sigurd took his sword and placed it upon his lap. He took each rose and swiped it against the blade, separating the flower from the stem. He handed the first one over to her, the delicate lavender bloom cupped in his tender hand. 

Deirdre felt her face redden. She took the flower and started to pick apart the petals. Besides her, Sigurd sneezed. Despite his deep, soothing voice, his sneeze was rather cute. 

“I’m not sure if this will work,” she said. “But it’s worth a try.” She took the coat and dipped it in the stream. Taking a handful of petals, she scrubbed away at the dirt. They slipped through her fingers and set off on a journey downstream.

Deirdre pulled the coat out of the water. “Well, I don’t think it’s going to smell as nice as we wanted, but the dirt seems to be out. It’s also all wet.”

“I don’t mind,” said Sigurd. “I can just bring it back to dry at home.”

“There’s one extra flower,” said Sigurd. “What should we do with it?”

“I know.” 

* * *

Nestled in the trees was a small cottage with a thatched straw roof. Vines snaked up the wooden framing. A small garden sat in a large patch of sun besides the house. Deirdre’s grandmother stood out front, sweeping away leaves from the stone pathway. Upon hearing her granddaughter approach, she lifted her head up and smiled. 

“Ah, Deirdre! I see you’ve made it in time for dinner.” Her grandmother turned to Sigurd. Raising her eyebrows, she examined him from head to toe. “And who might this dashing young man be?”

“This is Sigurd of Chalphy. He stumbled upon me when he was out hunting with a friend.”

Sigurd bowed for Dierdre’s grandmother. In response, her grandmother giggled. “Nice to meet you, Sigurd.”

“You as well.” He handed her the rose. She took it with her free hand.

“Why, thank you,” she said. “May I speak to my beloved granddaughter in private for one moment?”

Sigurd nodded. “Of course. I don’t want to interrupt anything important.”

Deirdre’s grandmother pulled her inside the cottage and closed the door. Besides the table and two chairs in the back, there was little furniture. An oval rug sat in front of the hearth. The pantry and cabinet stood on either side of said hearth. Barrels and crates stood stacked together underneath the stairs. A clothesline hung from the loft. Deirdre draped Sigurd’s coat over it.

“Are you sure he’s not lying about his identity?” Her grandmother asked, a hushed whisper.

“His clothes are that of a noble’s, yes, but the way he acts… there’s no way a spy would be this silly.” She peeked out the window, only to see him attempt to feed an apple to his horse. Instead of biting down on just the apple, it got a bit of his hand. He dropped the apple and grasped his wrist, almost doubling over.

“That’s… that’s actually a good point.” Her grandmother said, peeking out the window as well. She walked over and reopened the door. “Would you like to come in and have some soup? It’s pumpkin.”

Sigurd straightened himself back up, still wincing in pain. “Gladly!”

The two of them moved aside so Sigurd could enter. He nearly bumped his head on the doorframe on his way in. 

"What a nice little cottage you have here," he said. "And the soup smells lovely, too."

"If you think it smells nice, you're gonna love how it tastes," said Deirdre's grandmother. "Now go sit down in that chair over there, if you would."

Sigurd frowned. "But that would be awfully rude of me."

"I can stand. Don't worry about it." Deirdre walked over and pulled out the chair for her grandmother. "Besides, you just got bit by a horse. You deserve some comfort."

Sigurd chuckled and walked to the other side of the table. “If you insist.”

Once both her grandmother and Sigurd were seated, Deirdre fetched two bowls from the cabinet. She then went over to the hearth, where a black iron pot hung above the flickering flames. The earthy scent of pumpkins graced the air. She took a ladle and scooped the creamy concoction into each bowl. She then put the bowls down, first for her guest, and then for her grandmother.

Her grandmother smiled and tilted her head. “So, what is a man of Chalphy doing here in the middle of Verdane?”

"Well, my father and I came here to discuss security measures with King Batu and his sons. I'm sure you're aware, but there's been some incidents with the Loptyrian cultists lately."

A rush of blood went to Deirdre's head. Every nerve in her body tightened. They were here. They'd figured it out. The world was going to end, and it was all her fault. No, it was their fault, but she still played a key role. Thoughts started to spiral in her head, a torrent of endless anxieties.

"Are you alright?" Sigurd asked. "You paled up…"

Deirdre shook her head. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. Scared, but fine."

"We had no idea they were so close by," said Deirdre's grandmother. "It's quite a shock."

"No need to fret, though. I doubt they’ll come through here.” Sigurd took a sip of his soup. His face lit up. “Why, this is wonderful!”

Deirdre and her grandmother stared at one another while Sigurd downed the bowl of soup. He obviously meant well, he just had no clue what situation they were actually in. Definitely not a cultist.

Sigurd let out a big sigh and plopped down the bowl. “King Batu told us he is going to increase security around this area since it’s sacred. I’ll have to tell him about how nice you all are out here.”

“Oh, I’m sure he doesn’t care about nobodies like us,” said Deirdre’s grandmother. “Though how did someone of your status end up in these woods?”

“I was out hunting with--” Sigurd’s face paled. He jumped up from his seat, almost knocking over the dishes in the cabinet. "Thank you all so much for the food, but if I don't leave soon, Jamke is going to kill me. And my father too."

Deirdre’s grandmother chuckled as Sigurd ran head first into his still-wet coat. He took it down from the line and hung it over his shoulder. Before he opened the door, he stopped to look at his hosts. “Deirdre, my father and I will be here in Verdane for three more days. If it is no trouble, I would love to come back and spend some time with you before I go.”

“I… would love to see you again, Sir Sigurd.” Deirdre’s fingers twitched. “There’s just…”

“Yes?”

Deirdre looked to her grandmother. No words needed to be said. Just a simple nod.

_He's trustworthy._

_Dumb, but trustworthy._

“I have to tell you something.” Deirdre clenched the rough fabric of her dress. She had to tell him eventually. In her head, she uttered a silent prayer that he would understand, that he wouldn’t dismiss her as a madwoman vying for his attention. She removed her circlet and took a deep breath. Her fingers brushed away her bangs, revealing the secret underneath. Naga’s Brand.

“I am the Princess of Grannvale.”

Sigurd stood there for a solid minute or two, his mouth slack. He blinked every few seconds. Deirdre waved her hand in front of his face to make sure he was ok. To this he jumped a little and stammered. “Oh goodness, had I known I would have been much more proper. My deepest apologies.”

“It’s ok. I like this better than any kind of formality.” She chuckled, a nervous laugh instead of a gleeful one. “I wasn’t sure how you were going to take that, honestly. I thought you might think I’d drawn the mark on my head.”

“You can’t fake a brand like that,” said Sigurd. “It practically glows.”

“That’s why I wear the circlet,” Deirdre said. “To hide it from those who would hurt me.”

“The Loptyrians, I presume?”

“Yes. And anyone who would kidnap a princess. But mostly the Loptyrians.” She sighed. There were lots of threats to her life, weren’t there?

Sigurd put a hand on Deirdre’s shoulder. Her heart leapt as her eyes locked with his. Those deep, caring eyes.

“If anyone tries to hurt you while I am here, I will come to your aid. This I promise.”

If it weren’t for the fact that her heart was melting, Deirdre would have thanked him. Instead, she squeaked a small “thank you”.

He let go of her shoulder and exited the cottage. She followed him, eager to see him off. He then turned and tilted his head. “Um… I actually don’t know what way to go from here.”

“I believe that you’ll want to go back the way we came, take a right at the tree marked with an X. Continue on north from there and you should make it to the outskirts of the capital.”

Sigurd mounted his horse. “I’ll try to process that.”

With one last goodbye, she waved as he rode off into the forest. Once he was out of sight, she clutched her chest and squealed. She’d just talked to a man. Not just any man, a prince. Sure, she was a noble herself, but years of hiding made her feel much more like an ordinary girl. A cursed yet ordinary girl.

* * *

The next few days went as expected. Sigurd found his way to the cottage and the two of them spent the afternoon together. He told her about the world beyond the forest, about the sights and sweets of Grannvale, about the snow-capped mountains of Silesse and the vast Yied Desert. She showed him her favorite berry bushes, the best trees to climb, the shrine she and her grandmother attended and the little village nearby.

At sunset on the last night, she gave him a basket of heart shaped hand pies.

“For the journey home,” she said. “They’re made with the berries I picked the day I met you. We also glazed them in honey.”

Sigurd drooled at the sight. “Is it okay if I eat one now?”

“Go ahead. Just make sure you save some for your father.”

After devouring not one, but _two_ of the pies, Sigurd pulled a small pouch from his coat. He untied the string and shook it. Out came a small necklace with an amethyst pendant. 

“I figured I should get you something before I left,” he said. “I saw this, and it reminded me of your hair.”

She eyed the jewel. It sparkled like ice in the dying sunlight. “You didn’t have to do this for me.”

“I wanted to get something to remind you of me while I’m gone. I don’t think I’ll ever forget these last few days. Especially not these pies, or the wonderful woman who made them.”

“Oh, Sigurd…” Tears formed on Deirdre’s eyes. She leapt into him, arms wide. He embraced her back. The two of them rocked back and forth together in a slow rhythm. There, they stayed. It was a moment from a fairy tale.

Sigurd spoke first. “I promise I’ll see you again someday. If I don’t, then I owe you a great apology.”

Deirdre smiled. “I’m sure we’ll meet again, even if only in our dreams.”

Both of them slept well that night.

* * *

The next morning, Deirdre awoke to a knock at the door. She rubbed her eyes and yawned. The lack of light through the window and the dying fire signaled it was near dawn. Perhaps Sigurd came to visit before he left? She glanced over to the other bed. Grandmother, as per usual, was already up to check who was at the door. A tinge of guilt struck Deirdre, but with Sigurd’s confirmation of the Loptyrians in Verdane, it was too dangerous to check herself.

The door creaked open. A small draft of damp morning air snuck its way into the cottage. Deirdre shivered and wrapped her blanket around her shoulders. From up in the loft, she could make out her grandmother’s voice, as well as the voice of a male. Not Sigurd’s. She sighed.

The conversation downstairs went on for a good few minutes. Deirdre could not tell what they were talking about, only that it seemed like a serious matter. If it weren’t for the potential threat to her life, she would go down the stairs and peek. Eventually, she heard the door closing and the creak of steps up the wooden stairs. Her grandmother turned the corner, cane trembling in her hand. She drooped over more than usual. 

Deirdre, still wrapped in her blanket, blinked. “Is everything alright?”

When her grandmother spoke, her voice wavered and cracked. “It’s your father. He’s here.”


End file.
